Strange Attractors
by Tsuki the Avenger
Summary: "He didn't trust anyone. He shouldn't trust The Joker. He shouldn't... and yet he did." Jonathan Crane makes a friend in Arkham. The story of two villains, control, and chaos. (Spans all three Nolan films and beyond)


**Author's Note: **I've actually been wanting to write this fic for awhile, but it took a month of writer's block on my Batman Beyond epic for it to actually happen. The story takes place across and after all three movies. Also, minor reference to Grant Morrison's brain-child: _Batman Inc_. Lastly, this story is gen, but I suppose you could interpret the fascination between Joker and Scarecrow as Joker/Crane (maybe if you squint).

Enjoy the story! _- Tsuki_

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**Strange Attractors**

0.

No matter what the talking heads on Gotham Tonight said, everyone inside knew that Dr. Jonathan Crane was still the one running Arkham. Oh, not in the literal sense of course. There were new psychiatrists and certified administration members who filled out the paperwork and handed out pills and made announcements over the asylum's intercoms. But the inmates knew—and so did the guards. And it was just a matter of time before the rest of the staff found out as well...

It started out with the little things—the schizophrenic on Floor B, who had taken Crane's favorite seat at lunch the day before, suddenly trying to poke his own eyes out with a spork and all the while screaming about invading bacteria. He had never been afraid of bacteria before, at least not so far as anyone knew. Or the self-mutilator with borderline personality disorder from Floor D-2, who used to stay up singing off-tune folk songs until the early morning, suddenly developing a paralyzing fear of his own tongue—just a week after he had begun to occupy the cell next to Crane.

Crane's cell (or "dormitory," as the administration liked to refer to it in their press releases) had been searched after each incident, but nothing more criminal than a few blotted sketches of various birds (mostly ravens) could be found. The guards, not knowing what else to do, stuck the ex-doctor in one of the two master confinement rooms—the only rooms that actually had permanently padded walls and a high security lock installed and a security camera fixed on it at all times—but the damage had been done.

The inmates knew, as they had always known, that Crane was synonymous with FEAR. And woe be to the person who pissed him off...

1.

The laughter began to haunt the Arkham walls, like an omnipresence, just minutes after _he_ arrived. Sometimes it was just a spatter of dark chuckles, occasionally broken up by loud, sharp claps of laughter—like a car backfiring. Other times the sound was manic and skipped through each floor of the Asylum like discordant music.

The laughter was made all the more eerie by the fact that almost none of the inmates had ever actually _seen_ the infamous Joker. He and another secret (and much quieter) patient were kept somewhere on Floor E, secluded from the rest of the inmates.

At least for awhile.

It took a full three weeks before the Joker finally did something worthy of being thrown in the one vacant master confinement room (and that "something" was bite off the right eyelid and brow of one of the nightshift security guards).

It was quite a parade of guards and doctors—each watching for the slightest twinge of a straight-jacket strap, for anything that might hint at the Joker's escape—up two elevators, down the hallway, and past all of the inmates on D-2. His laughter snuck from his lips like escaping mice as they neared the high-security cell. The doctors all winced, their faces pinched with fear. After the attack, no one had even bothered to wipe the blood from the Joker's mouth. It stained his scars like lipstick.

2.

'Fascinating,' was the first word Crane thought of when he first saw the Joker.

'Powerful,' was the second.

There was a palpable, crackling energy to the man that emanated out into the hallway and grasped the hearts of all who saw him. This man was bound and surrounded by well-armed guards... but it was clear who was in control. The doctors and security men all looked nervous, like the white straps of Joker's jacket could turn into snakes and bite them at any moment. They were terrified of this man that they were supposed to have power over, to imprison... and there the Joker was, grinning.

Crane peered out the safety glass window on his cell door, his body leaning sideways, following the small parade until they reached the door of the confinement room next to his own—and then all Crane could see was the trembling edge of one doctor's lab-coat.

Crane sat. He waited.

One by one, he heard the locks on the security door slam into position, heard the doctors walk away—a bit faster than they usually walked. Fascinating indeed... the doctors had long been the last people in this Asylum to hold onto their fantasy of control. After the guards and patients and the few, insignificant members of the staff all began to avoid eye contact with Crane and challenge him less, the doctors themselves still had unshakable delusions of grandeur. They saw Crane as merely a sick patient, one who was in their control, who they could break and study and put back together—fixed, good as new.

But the Joker... well, he seemed to be a horse of a different color.

After five more minutes of silence, listening for the slightest chance that a doctor would return, Jonathan Crane pushed against one of his wall's padded cushion, the one perfectly in the center of the right wall's bottom row. It shifted an inch and a half. Good enough, for now.

He cleared his throat and began to speak. "Welcome to my Asylum."

The response, at first, was a near silence, only broken by a raspy, soft breathing. Then a wheezing chuckle. Then a coughing laugh. "_Your_ Asylum, hmm? The – _heh_ – hospitality leaves something to be desired." The laughter was a breathy hee-hee-hee now, reminding Crane of a small pig. "Funny. I would have thought the supposed possessor of such a _fine_ establishment" the word fine sounded like a knife cutting across paper "would be out in a shiny office somewhere and not in a padded cell."

"No, you wouldn't," Crane countered. "You're smarter than that. I've seen the news. What you did to Gotham. You know how power works. A padded cell is exactly where the most powerful people in Arkham are sent."

The soft wheezing chuckle again, this time deeper and darker. "My, my... you are a Mister Smarty-Pants, aren't you?" Crane could almost feel the burn of the Joker's gaze through the wall, sharp and intense. "...Who _are_ you?"

This caused Crane to hesitate. The tone of Joker's voice sounded smoke-like, seductive. On instinct, he wanted to hurry and answer it... which, immediately after the impulse, made him stop and think that he shouldn't. That he'd be giving the Joker something significant, something he would not yet be ready to give up.

This was about Power.

"A friend," he finally answered. "Make yourself at home. I know I have."

3.

No one sat near Crane at lunch anymore. The 'FEAR' surrounded him like a barbed-wire fence, sharp and dangerous. There were too many stories, too many "accidents." The wrong word or look or just the sin of chewing too loudly could mean utter destruction—of that everyone was sure. Even the guards didn't bother him too much, allowing Crane to peruse in quiet solitude whatever reading material he had brought with him to the cafeteria. Today it was a paper on how non-NMDA receptors in the amygdala related to a human's expression of conditioned fear. It was nothing especially new, but the research had been well done and the data did have some unique interpretations and potential applications...

The lunch tray slammed down in front of him, grey mashed potatoes splattering forward, making Crane jump slightly. A conditioned response to a type of fear: being startled. Hmm. A surprisingly relevant example... but not exactly a welcome one. Crane hated being his own lab rat.

Crane looked up, blue-grey eyes glaring through his glasses. Across from him sat a greasy-haired man, his pale and tacky face interrupted with horrifying scars, as if a child's crayon slipped and zigzagged across a portrait, the mouth sliced in two.

The Joker.

"You're a hard man to find, doc." The Joker scooped up a large spoonful of mashed potatoes and made a big show of chewing them, sloppily, his scars rippling across his face. "I looked for you at recess and during math class... but you were probably a teacher's pet, holed up in the library, weren't you?"

"This isn't school," Crane half-snapped. No, too fast. The Joker had gotten under his skin quickly. Settle down. "What are you... I mean... how...?" His composure wasn't reasserting itself quickly. The Joker mouth grew into a stretched, wide smile.

"How did I know it was you? Oh, come on, doc. I'm no board certified psychiatrist—but then, neither are you anymore, are you?—but I can spot a power player." The Joker's lips made a slick, wet smacking sound. Crane tried not to grimace. "Or, at least, someone who is trying to be one. A big shot. The one in control." Another large spoonful of mashed potatoes, more wet lip smacking. "You like control, don't you, doc?"

Crane decided not to dignify the probing question with a response. He turned back to his cafeteria peas, scooping carefully with his plastic spoon. Oh. The Joker's mashed potatoes had splattered onto his peas. The sight made Jonathan Crane's skin crawl, his joints tighten. Across from him, the Joker was oblivious, his mouth smacking wet and open, mashed potatoes flecking from his lips.

"If you're going to be disgusting in your eating habits, I'd rather you not sit across from me," Crane stated flatly, trying not to snap the spoon in his hand as it tightened uncomfortably. "You're making a mess."

The Joker shrugged and swallowed a mouthful of grey slop. "The whole world is a mess." His eyes met Cranes and Jonathan couldn't help but catch the electricity of his eyes, intense with a curious mania. "Know anything about chaos theory? Unpredictable patterns?"

Crane raised an eyebrow as The Joker set down his spoon and grinned, his hands suddenly gesturing at the table as if it were an obscure diagram.

"Say you've got a city... and the city is a type of system. People get up, they go to work, there are typical traffic patterns, government services to keep things running, social contracts and courtesies, green means go, red means stop. Morning until night. Small hiccups everyday, but nothing major. Add some organized crime in the system and you get just that—more _organization_. Things are running, the _system_ is running." Joker's grin looked wider than ever now and Crane could not help but stare at his yellowed teeth, sharp behind thick, scared lips. "But part of chaos theory is the Butterfly Effect. One small change, and the effects are unpredictable. It can disrupt the system, turn it around, make it something else. The best case scenario?" The Joker took a handful of potatoes and slammed it on the table, causing a large 'BANG' as the potatoes squished and splattered. Nearby, the guards' hands moved to their tasers, eyes watchful and wary. Joker just grinned. "Chaos. Destruction. No more system, no more pretention of order."

"Fascinating" Crane deadpanned, adjusting his glasses. "I'd still prefer it if you didn't get your potatoes and spit in my peas."

The Joker was still and silent for a moment. Then laughter. The sound rang through the cafeteria, undeniably joyous. Contagious.

Despite himself, Jonathan Crane found himself grinning.

4.

Later that day, Joker shared his thoughts about chaos theory with his therapist. His demonstration included stabbing her in the eye with the broken stem of his plastic lunch spoon. After that, The Joker was no longer allowed utensils at meals.

5.

"A Lorenz system."

"What?"

Jonathan Crane stared curiously at the gap in the padded wall, listening to The Joker's deep, scratchy chuckle.

"I said," The Joker repeated, "a Lorenz system. I don't suppose you're a math person, Scarey."

Crane scowled at the new nickname that The Joker had saddled him with. For the past two months, it seemed that The Joker wanted to talk with Crane any time he could—at lunch, during art therapy, during time in the yard, and—of course—back in their supposed solitary confinements through the gap in the wall pads. The Joker had seemingly decided that Crane was his appreciative audience of one. And mostly, Jonathan had to admit, The Joker was right. Crane always smirked at the tales of blood and mayhem that The Joker had to share, and he giggled with amusement when The Joker saw through guards' and doctors' fakery hiding their fragility and fear. Violence and power—that's what they had in common.

But times like this—when The Joker would want Crane to follow his twisted and obsessive logic—Jonathan couldn't help but feel tired and annoyed. Besides, the rants all ended the same way...

"Well," Crane finally sighed, "I took as much as was needed for a psychology and pre-med major. But no, I have no idea what you're talking about."

The Joker made a wet, smacking sound with his lips. "People try to chart chaos, to make predictions about possible outcomes. Based on variables and different starting points or 'initial conditions,' different possible outcomes can be charted and graphed. They're circular, all curving toward a center, or an 'attractor."

The Joker drew out the word and made it sound like _'a-TRAAAACK-ter.'_

"But there are there are more alternatives than just one—in fact, there's a second. And – _heh_ - they can't predict when the graphed spiral will jump from one attractor to another. So the graph connects the two attractors and their spiraling energy together—they look like butterfly wings. You know, some say that's how the Butterfly Effect got it's name. From a Lorenz graph. The two alternatives are called '_Strange_ Attractors.' _Heh_—isn't that great? " The Joker chuckled and sucked on his teeth noisily. After a moment more of giggling softly to himself, The Joker started to sing in a gravely off-key: "_People are strange, when you're a stranger_..."

"Why, exactly, are you telling me this?" Crane asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"Because," The Joker giggled, "we're the strange attractors! _He_ and I. Two options, choices of chaotic effect."

"Who...? Oh. You mean you and the Batman?" That's who it always came back to. The Joker's obsession—his "reason for living," his alpha-and-omega.

"_Obviously_, Scarey! Do try to keep up!"

"Hmm. Yes. Of course." Jonathan Crane leaned back and closed his eyes, listening as The Joker explained the mysteries of the universe, dressed in black kevlar and a cape.

6.

They settled into a routine after awhile. When The Joker was locked in 'solitary,' he would wax poetic at Crane through the gap in their walls, discussing chaos and cosmology and black holes and philosophy. When he was out on good (or at least not _murderous_) behavior, he would sit with Crane at lunch or in art therapy and gossip about the goings on of Gotham city, what happened beyond Arkham's walls. They discussed Batman's antics like chess moves, and Crane found that The Joker was one of the few people who he could talk to about Skinner, Lacan, and psychological ego deconstruction (though The Joker seemed to only half-remember anything—his surprisingly wide knowledge was always mixed with obviously false anecdotes and misstated information).

It made Crane's time at Arkham a little... brighter.

And that was dangerous. Crane had learned long ago not to rely on anyone. The cold memory of dark basements, ice water, and ravens should have been enough to remind him of that. But when The Joker smacked his lips (a habit Jonathan still found disgusting) and mused that the grim and serious orderly on Floor C would _have_ to smile if her lips were peeled off, Crane couldn't help but match that grin.

7.

They were all in the rec room when the news of the attack aired. The obsessive compulsive who constantly quoted _Alice in Wonderland_—Tetch, Crane finally recalled—stuck his nose up to the television and gasped "Curiouser and curiouser..." as Gotham stadium collapsed in on itself.

"_This is the instrument of your liberation!"_ the masked man on the television croaked. The inmates watched, eyes open and crazed. At the mention of the bomb, the dermatillomaniac from Floor B started to scream. Someone else started to make a loud keening sound. Crane stayed silent, pressing his fingers together in front of his face, pondering, analyzing. And, for some reason, The Joker just looked bored.

"How puzzling all these changes are," Tetch sighed, his vacant stare never leaving the television.

That night, The Joker was silent.

When news broke that the man known as Bane had stormed Blackgate and freed the prisoners, Crane couldn't help but be intrigued. "He might break into Arkham next," he whispered to The Joker that night.

There was a harsh snorting sound. "Why do you need him, Scarey? _You_ can break out of here anytime, right?"

Jonathan felt his neck tighten. "Why... why do you say that?"

The Joker chuckled darkly. "All those patients who get worse? Who suddenly have new fears and phobias? _Heh-heh_—you expect me to believe that you have _nothing_ to do with that? You get out of your room, don't you?"

Crane hesitated a moment. He didn't trust anyone. He shouldn't trust The Joker. He shouldn't—

"Yes."

"Hmm?"

"Yes, I can get out of my room. I can get you out of yours too. But the security _outside_ the building isn't something I can bypass. I have a... limited amount of fear gas hidden around the asylum. Not enough to deal with the guards. And both personnel and alarms to alert of an outside breech have been increased since I've been here. Some sort of grant from the Wayne Foundation. So... no. I can be a force _in_ Arkham, but I don't think I can get out. Not without special circumstances aiding me." Crane considered for a moment and then asked: "Why don't you like him? He seems like his philosophy matches yours quite well. Shouldn't you be cheering Bane on?"

The sound that The Joker made then was almost animalistic, a deep furious growling. "He's a schemer. He has an agenda, a plan. He covers it with a cloak of pretend chaos—likes to say that he's giving freedom and shaking up the balance. But he's a faker. There's something he's after. His chaos _is_ a plan... and I don't like that. Not. One. Bit."

Jonathan opened his mouth to respond when Arkham's emergency alarm sounded and the blast of an explosion shook the walls.

Bane had arrived.

8.

They ran. Crane unlocked both of their doors—the fools really thought they could lock the head of Arkham up _in_ Arkham and he wouldn't know some tricks?—and they took off down the hall, The Joker's smile stretched wide as Jonathan moved a bathroom tile to the side to reveal an aerosol container and five syringes of a blue-tinged serum.

"That looks like fun, doc. Taking the toys out to play?"

"If we need to. Let's just get out of here."

The Joker giggled. "Not yet. We need to let one more player out of the box."

"What?"

More giggling. A manic gleam in his eyes as he threw his arm around Crane's shoulders. "Don't you remember, Scarey? I didn't come to Arkham alone. The chess board's long lost knight is on Floor E. Let's pay him a visit, shall we?"

Crane tried to block out the chaotic sounds from the floor above them—gun shots, screaming—as he followed The Joker, who was skipping now and singing to himself in a raspy, off-tune voice. They finally came to a door bolted heavily with an extra layer of security locks.

"Haaaaaaaaaaarvey?" The Joker called into the door's food-slot.

The dull echo of a voice inside, barely audible above the noise of a riot. "What do you want, Clown? And what's going on up there?"

The Joker chuckled, clicking his tongue. "Some pretender is copying my game. But no matter—we'll just get our own playing board. Whaddya say? Want to break out with us?"

"I... I..." A deep growling sound, followed by a sob. "No. Yes. Maybe. God, I hate you. I think... I don't know..."

The Joker turned to Crane and held out his hand. "Got a quarter?"

"What?! No. Why would I...?"

"Well, he needs a quarter to make a decision. Perfect chance and all that. The answer to chaos, maybe. Either way, if he's going to come along, he needs a quarter."

"Well, I don't have one. Who is that in there, anyway?"

The Joker grinned and shrugged. "A dead man. That's not the point. I just—_heh_-hate leaving my masterpiece in here to rot. I spent a lot of time on him—it really seems a waste."

"Joker, if we don't get going, the rioters are going to get down here. If you want to be caught up in Bane's plan, fine, but I..."

The Joker grabbed him by the hair, pulling until the roots shrieked. "Think, Mister Smartypants. What works instead of a quarter?"

Jonathan hesitated a moment. "Excuse me," he called into the slot. "The Joker wants you out. I want you to stay in so that we can get out faster. We're each picking a number between one and ten." Crane held up five fingers to The Joker. The scarred maniac grinned and pondered a moment before holding up three. Crane nodded. "So, pick a number and whatever one you're closest to, that's your answer. Okay?"

There was only silence for a moment before a hushed voice said, "Two." The Joker giggled in response. Crane scowled and unlocked the door.

"Okay. The Joker won. Let's go."

The man in the darkness snorted. "Of course. He always does."

Jonathan didn't get a chance to get a good look at the man in the darkness or respond before another explosion hit. Crane found himself falling, slipping, his head hitting concrete before everything went dark.

9.

Bane was standing over him when he came to. He made an offer to join the revolution, to pass judgment on Gotham's corrupt and elite. Crane didn't have to be the genius he was to hear the implied "...or else" in the statement. He agreed.

As he left the wreckage of Arkham, Crane didn't see any sign of The Joker. As he followed the men in masks, he couldn't help but feel that he was leaving something important behind. Something that—during his time at Arkham—had made him whole.

10.

Dr. Crane was numb. Numb was the best word he could use to describe it. He sat—in the warehouse that he had been using as his lab—overwhelmed by a sense of emptiness and boredom.

He noted distantly that he'd gotten blood splatter on his notes. That was unfortunate. He could barely tell now if the woman had screamed for 4.6 seconds before she died or 4.9 seconds. He might, he decided, have to redo the experiment. Precision was important to him. That accuracy was his control.

He had started planning the experiment's recreation when there were a series of sharp and discordant knocks at the warehouse door. Crane tensed. He picked up his new invention—a glove with claw-like needles at the end of each finger, each one a dripping with a condensed formula of his fear toxin—and inched toward the door. The knocking became louder, faster, crescendoing. Crane clenched his jaw and whipped open the door, readying his gloved hand to strike at the misfortunate intruder.

Crane saw red. A red smile to be exact. Stretched and wide, twisting scars under cheap lipstick.

"Hiya, Scarey."

It occurred to Jonathan for the first time that he'd never seen The Joker with his makeup on before. In Arkham, his skin had been pale, but still "human" toned, his scars a slightly darker tone than the rest of his skin, his brown eyes sharp. Now The Joker was whole again, white grease paint unevenly covering his skin, his eyes swallowed in black rings, his lips bleeding red. It took Crane's breath away.

Jonathan Crane took a moment to recompose himself and raised an eyebrow. "What are you doing here? In fact, how did you find me?"

The Joker's eyes danced and glistened, his smile widening like a raw steak being sliced open. "Oh, I just followed the bodies. Interesting coincidence, the number of sex workers and homeless folks who have died from heart attacks around this area. And they've all had these weeeeeird marks, like they were scratching at themselves, trying to claw at something, like they were trying to get something off of them. Something that _scaaaaaared_ them? Been having fun, doc?"

Crane thought about it a moment. "Not really. It has been informative, but I wouldn't use the word 'fun.'"

"Awwwwe, that's too bad. You used to have fun, didn't you? With your experiments?" The Joker's eyes were as bright as supernovas, searching Crane's expression.

"I suppose. But that doesn't answer my main question: why are you here?"

"Well," The Joker pushed his way into the warehouse, his arms spread wide as if gesturing toward the expanse. "Because he's baaaaack. And I want to get him a 'welcome home' present. Something funny."

"Who's back?" Crane adjusted his glasses, frowning. He couldn't mean... no, The Joker wasn't that disconnected from reality, was he?

"Oh, you know who. Him. The Batman!" The Joker began to giggle, each laugh sounding like crushing glass.

"Batman is dead. He died in the Neutron bomb explosion last year. You know that. Everyone knows that. You've seen that ridiculous statue, haven't you?"

The Joker waved his hand as if swatting a fly. "No, no, no. My Bat got away. He always has a plan. He's a planner. The best! And I've seen him. You can't mistake him—there's no one like him."

"Actually, it seems that there are several now." Crane snorted. "Not that any of them are all that good. Whoever the child is who's been running around in that Batman costume for the past year, he's no where near as skilled. You'd have to be incompetent to be caught by him. And throwing Wayne Enterprise's money at him isn't going to help."

That had been the biggest surprise of the year. Bruce Wayne—thought dead since the Bane incident—had returned to Gotham in the last month, chuckling in interviews on all major news channels that he just _had_ to stop running off to Europe because people kept declaring him dead. Sheepishly, the billionaire admitted that he had used what was left of his massive fortune to bribe officials into sneaking him out of the city, so he missed the trials and executions. Crane could have sworn that he thought he saw Wayne in the crowd one day, but it was so difficult to tell the bland tapioca of Gotham's socialite elite apart so he was probably mistaken.

No, the strangest thing about Bruce Wayne wasn't his second return from the dead. It was his new "charity" announcement. A new non-profit organization dedicated to helping "not only Gotham City, but also the whole world." A funding for vigilantes inspired by The Batman. Batman Incorporated.

It was a silly idea. Almost insulting. Sure, the media was eating it up like crazy and most were analyzing Wayne's bizarre decision as a manifestation of his own guilt for abandoning the city during the Great Crisis. And more "Dark Knight" themed heroes were popping up in Blüdhaven and Dakota City.

But it wasn't "Him." It wasn't the real Batman. They were just fakes. Copies. Pretenders.

"No, no, no," The Joker repeated, as if reading his mind. "Not one of those. The original. My Batman."

"He's _not_..." Before Crane could finish, The Joker pulled a phone from his purple coat. The screen displayed a grainy video. Pressing play, The Joker grinned as Crane watched a circle of gang members taken down swiftly and brutally by a shadowy figure.

Joker was right. That wasn't the pretender. That was...

"Oh. My. God." Crane found himself whispering.

"I _know_," The Joker responded. His grin grew, seeming to fill the room. Suddenly, Crane was breathless as The Joker grabbed his hand and spun him around in the parody of a waltz.

"It's going to be so _fun_, Scarey. Having him back. Oh, and that's where you come in, doc. Think you can play around with that gas of yours? I want something that'll really make people _die_ with laughter. _Heh-heh-heh_."

Crane hesitated as The Joker's hands tightened on his waist. "I... I think I can do that. Aerosol? That would be easier than liquid. It'll take me a bit, but..."

"Oh, take your _time_, Scarey. There's no rush. I'll let him get settled in for a bit, let him remember what ol' Gotham is like. And then—" The Joker spun Crane around and dipped him to the floor like a ballroom dancer. Jonathan briefly wondered where The Joker learned to lead. "—then I'll put on a show."

The Joker planted a smiling, wet kiss on his neck, strangely reminding Jonathan of an excited cocker spaniel. The Joker's already messy lipstick was now slightly smeared.

As The Joker pulled him back up, Crane found himself thinking of Tetch, wide blue eyes darting around the Arkham cafeteria as he quoted Lewis Caroll: _"We're all mad here."_

The Joker still had his arm around Jonathan's waist, but his brown eyes were pointed heavenward now, as if seeing in his mind's eye a Bat-signal and a dark and caped crusader. Crane just stood there in silence, his own eyes locked on The Joker's far-away grin. They were all strange attractors, he supposed—The Bat, The Joker, and himself. Spinning around each other, jumping from place to place.

Jonathan Crane knew he shouldn't feel so comfortable here, so calm, so hopeful. The ravens had taught him that. He knew that his glee was against his better judgement. Nevertheless, he felt a sense of excitement for the first time since the destruction of Arkham. He and The Joker would bring 'FEAR' to The Batman very soon. But for now, he was just content to feel The Joker's arm tighten around his waist, an anchor in the chaos.

**END**


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